Ruling Passion (31 page)

'So it's Davenant you're after? Well, well. Would  you care for a drink or is it too early?'

As though in answer to his query, the door  opened and Major Palfrey came in clutching two  brown-paper-wrapped bottles.

'Morning, Hartley, morning, Mrs Culpepper.' He  noticed Pascoe and gave him a neutral nod.

'Sorry to butt in, but as I was just saying to  Marianne, you've caught us on the hop, old boy.  Pity I hadn't been around when you rang. That  potman of mine's a bit dim! The thing is, we're very  low on spirits at the moment. Can manage a couple of bottles, but boxes are out of the question. Sorry.'

It was a more than usually gruesomely hearty  performance, Pascoe felt. But why? Because I'm  here? Do I always bring out the worst in people?

'Don't fret about it, JP,' said Culpepper equably. 'Sam Dixon will probably be able to cope. Give him  a ring, will you, Marianne? They do quite a large off-licence trade at the Anne, I believe.'

'I suppose they do,' said Palfrey as if he suspected a slur. 'You must give us warning if you're  going to start spreading business locally. So you're  with us once more, Sergeant Pascoe? What brings  you back?'

'I really wanted a word with Mr Davenant. Is he  here, Mr Culpepper?'

Culpepper exchanged glances with his wife, but  before either could speak, his mother burst out.  'Well, if he is, they've kept very quiet about him.  I've not seen hide nor hair of him.'

'Thank you, Mrs Culpepper. Well, sir. Is he  here?'

'Of course he is, darlings. Though he almost wasn't.'

Standing at the door, one hand on his hip,  the other behind his head, was Anton Davenant. Behind him in the hall, Pascoe caught a glimpse of  Ferguson.

'I had no idea you were here, my dear fellow. And I was just setting off for a little circumambulation in search of Nature, red in tooth and claw,  when I ran into your boy.'

Boy
came out beautifully round and succulent. Pascoe held back a smile. It must have been a good  test for Ferguson's temper under stress.

'I'd like a word with you if I may, Mr Davenant,'  said Pascoe.

'By all means. Here?'

'Would you care to use my study?' intervened  Culpepper before Pascoe could suggest retiring to  the station. It seemed a good idea to start here at  least. Things were on the boil, though he was far  from sure what the dish was going to be.

'Thanks,' he said. 'That's kind.'

Culpepper led the way across the hall to a room  next to his porcelain room.

'I'll ring Sam Dixon now,' said Marianne suddenly. 'About that drink.'

'Do, darling,' said Culpepper. 'In here, gentlemen.'

Pascoe paused as he passed Ferguson.

'Nicely fielded,' he murmured. 'Get on to Backhouse and tell him I'm opening up the batting  here.'

The study was more like a businessman's office  than the gentleman's retreat Pascoe had for some  reason expected. Modern desk with typewriter,  a book-shelf filled mainly with reference and  technical volumes, a filing cabinet; nothing here  which showed any desire to emulate the landed  gentry.

'At last we are alone,' said Davenant.

'So we are, Mr Davenant, what were you doing  in Birkham village yesterday morning?'

'Passing through, dear boy.'

'It's a little off the beaten track.'

'That depends on where you are beating your  track
from
and
to.'

'And where was that?'

'Which?'

'Which?'

'From
or
to?'

'Begin at the beginning, please,' said Pascoe,  quite enjoying himself. Dalziel would have been  clenching his fists and making sinister grunting  sounds by now. The only thing which darkened  his mood was the cloudy connection between this  man and Brookside Cottage.

'Well, let me see. From first? From Barnsley  then.'

'Barnsley!'

'Why so amazed? Contrary to rumour Barnsley is not a volcanic cavity full of flames, fumes and  the stench of sulphur. A trifle naive, yes; something of a frontier town, yes. But not without its  attractions, one of which is a superb restaurant,  the delights of which I check annually for the 
Gourmet's Guide.
So I left Thornton Lacey on Tuesday, after the inquest, missing all the excitement  and the tragedy too, of course, and headed for  Barnsley.'

'So. From Barnsley to—?'

Davenant threw up his hands in exasperation.  'It's self-evident surely! To
here!
I arrived here  yesterday evening, so I must have been heading  for here, mustn't I?'

'I don't know if you consult maps, Mr Davenant,  but Birkham would take you many miles out of  your way.'

'Of course. I see your difficulty. I wanted to take a look at the Old Mill about five miles to the north.  Do you know it? Fascinating. Do you know I spent  a week in Birkham last year doing a feature article  and I never found time to get to see the Old Mill!  So when I was in Barnsley . . . !'

He was doing a very good job, Pascoe had to  admit. Fitting everything nicely into a reasonable pattern. So nicely that Pascoe had to keep  on reminding himself of all the other little bits  and pieces. All? Mainly Etherege's agreement that  Davenant had been the middleman!

He stared down at Culpepper's desk for inspiration. It was empty but for a tray which held one of the Sunday paper business supplements. Egotistically, it was opened at an account of Nordrill's  annual general meeting held the previous Wednesday afternoon.

At which time, the thought popped into his mind  like a well-browned piece of toast, Culpepper was  wandering around Sotheby's, wishing he could  afford to bid.

Which thought prompted one obvious question  and a second not quite so obvious.

But now was not the time to ask them.

'Is this about poor old Jonathan Etherege?' asked  Davenant.

Pascoe looked up, pleasantly surprised. His musings on Culpepper had had an unforeseen spin-off, the breaching of a minute gap in Davenant's  unperturbability.

'Who?' he said.

'Etherege. I read about him in the papers and  it just struck me that this is why you people are suddenly finding anything to do with Birkham so  fascinating. Mind you, there must be a mistake!  Jonathan as a burglar is too much. As a
killer,
it's  not on!'

'Many people find it in them to be killers,' Pascoe  said flatly.

The doorbell rang and at the same time there  was a tap on the study door. Pascoe opened it. Marianne Culpepper stood there with a coffee  tray, but she was looking down the hallway to  the front door.

'Angus. How nice to see you. Come in, please,' said Culpepper.

Pascoe peered out, rudely pushing his head almost up against Marianne's. Pelman was just  stepping into the hall. He stopped short as he  spotted Pascoe, then came forward quickly.

'Pascoe. I heard you were here. I'm sorry I didn't  have a chance to see you again on Tuesday. Let me  say how sorry I am. It was a terrible thing. Terrible.  I was more distressed than I can say.'

He was referring to the discovery of Colin, Pascoe realized, not the shooting. The priorities were right, he had to admit.

But Pelman hadn't finished.

'And I'm sorry too about taking a pot-shot at  you. Or rather over you. The superintendent was on me so quick that I didn't even know you'd been  hit by a splinter till later. Is it OK?'

'Smiling was painful for a while,' said Pascoe.

Pelman laughed.

'Good man. I thought you were a blasted poacher. Anyway, to make some amends, I put  a brace of pheasants in the car when I heard you  were about. If you've been shot for a poacher, you  might as well go home like one. Hartley, give us a  hand, will you?'

The two men went out of the front door once again and Pascoe retreated into the study. There  was something about Pelman he could admire.  The man had said nothing at all about his own ordeal as a suspect for several hours.

He turned back to Davenant who was pouring  out the coffee.

'Black?' asked Davenant.

'Thanks,' said Pascoe. He was getting nowhere.  Backhouse wanted him to play it cool, but if  Backhouse insisted on keeping his own hand so  well concealed, then he could get on with his own bloody game!

'Etherege says it was your idea for him to organize the burglaries,' he said conversationally.

Davenant hardly flinched.

'Which burglaries? You don't mean . . . ? Good  Lord, how clever! he must be trying for a plea of  insanity!'

'I thought you said it was impossible for him to  be guilty?'

'So I did. But that's not the same as it being  impossible for your lot to
prove
him guilty!'

'My word,' said Pascoe. 'I thought you loved us  bobbies?'

'A simple country boy's got to be careful who  he loves, Inspector.'

'Like you loved Timmy?' There, that did it. He  was well off the rails laid down by Backhouse  now.

'Perhaps,' said Davenant. 'But he's dead, isn't  he? Pity you couldn't have got there on Friday  night. It might have helped.'

'Why?' asked Pascoe, keeping a tighter rein on  his temper than was yet necessary. 'You managed  it and that didn't help at all.'

Davenant put his coffee cup down and his gaze  flickered momentarily around the room, finally coming to rest steadfastly on Pascoe.

Escape? or a weapon? wondered Pascoe. This  hygienic, functional study offered little chance of  either.

'No,' said Davenant sadly. 'It didn't, did it?'

For a moment Pascoe was unable to grasp the significance of the words.

'You were there?' he said finally. 'You admit  it?'

'Yes,' said Davenant. 'I was there.'

Outside in the hallway there was a crash and the  sound of upraised voices. Pascoe was glad of the  diversion and opened the study door to peer out  yet again.

Just inside the front door stood Sam Dixon holding a cardboard container in his arms. Another  lay on the floor at his feet and a damp stain was  spreading quickly from it. There was a strong  smell of whisky. Old Mrs Culpepper stood alongside Dixon, glaring at him angrily, while her son  and daughter-in-law came out of the lounge to investigate the noise. Pelman and Palfrey were  close behind.

'What's happened?' asked Culpepper.

'Sorry,' said Dixon. 'Bit of an accident. My fault.'

The old woman muttered something inaudible  and stamped off into the garden.

'Your birds are on the back seat of your car,' said  Pelman to Pascoe. 'Don't forget 'em! I really must be on my way now, Marianne, Hartley. Work to  be done!'

He set off up the hall but his passage was impeded  by yet another arrival. This time it was Backhouse  with Crowther close behind.

'May I come in?' asked the superintendent, sniffing. 'This smells interesting. You're not trying to  corrupt Inspector Pascoe, I hope?'

He came down the hallway, nodding at Pelman  as he passed. Even now the way out was now clear, Pelman's impetus seemed to have been completely  spent and he made no attempt to leave.

'Sorry to intrude, Mr Culpepper, but I wanted a  word with Inspector Pascoe.'

'By all means,' said Culpepper.

Pascoe backed into the study where Davenant  still stood. He had lit a cigarette and looked perfectly at ease.

'Well?' said Backhouse.

'He admits he was there.'

'Where?'

'At Brookside Cottage on the night of the murders.'

Backhouse rolled his eyes heavenwards in  mock-appeal.

'How right I was to come so quickly,' he murmured. 'You seem incapable of following instructions, Inspector. I suppose I should think myself  lucky he hasn't been beaten unconscious! Wait  outside now, will you? Crowther, step in here, will you?'

'Sir,' said Pascoe and went out, passing Crowther in the doorway. He was beginning to feel once  again the simmering fury which seemed to be his  normal emotional state in Thornton Lacey.

The hall was empty now; everyone had retired  to the lounge, doubtless to discuss the constabulary  goings-on. Pascoe, in no mood for small talk, made  for the front door. On the steps he took a couple  of deep breaths of fresh, cool air. It was perceptibly colder now. The old woman had been right. This  was the bouquet of winter.

The drive in front of the house was like a car-park. Pelman's Land-Rover was still there, Palfrey's car, Dixon's van, and of course Backhouse's  official limousine.

'Excuse me, sir,' said Ferguson behind him.

'Yes?'

'I don't know if it's important, but when the big  fellow came out to get those birds from the Land-Rover, he gave something else to Mr Culpepper.'

'What?'

'A packet of some kind. About so big. White  paper wrapping.'

'Did they know you were watching?'

'No. It wasn't surreptitious or anything like that.  Just quick, if you know what I mean. Not much  said. That's what made me take notice.'

'What did Culpepper do with this packet?'

'Stuck it in his pocket. But after that, I don't  know what. It was quite bulky and he's got rid of  it somewhere, I noticed just now.'

'Well done, Hawkeye,' said Pascoe.

He turned and re-entered the house. Everything was quiet. A man of Culpepper's money and  taste didn't build doors which let ordinary conversation trickle through. He wondered again about Culpepper and Davenant. How guilty was the collector? Just suspicious of the source of the sale  items? or with definite knowledge they had been  stolen? The law made little distinction between the two states, but the individual conscience was  a much more refined beast, able to pick and crop  at definition and qualification.

These thoughts ran through his mind as he made  his way silently and swiftly upstairs. Davenant  was using the room which Ellie had occupied.  There was surprisingly little evidence of his presence - pyjamas, toilet articles, all with his initials monogrammed on them; but nothing really  personal.

He left the room and stood a moment on the  landing. Still silence below.

Now he moved on to what his memory of the  geography of the house told him was Culpepper's  room. While it was clearly a man's room there was sufficient evidence of occasional female occupation to indicate Marianne's departure from the marriage bed was by no means a permanent move.